


Write the World Between the Lines

by poetica (TheFire_in_the_NightSky)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Drawing John in Naughty Ways, Arthur's Journal, Awkward Flirting, Clothing Kink, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, I have a thing for it I suppose, Idiots in Love, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Morston Week 2020, Romantic Gestures, Sharing Clothes, collab fic, this isn't as shallow as the tags suggest I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 09:36:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25847446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFire_in_the_NightSky/pseuds/poetica
Summary: For so long now, Arthur has hounded John over all the things in his life he stands to lose if he don't get his damn head out of his ass and at least try to be a better, more responsible man. But during a trip alone together away from camp, some small, yet unexpected things change the perspective of that for Arthur. It opens Arthur's eyes into realising there is a whole lot in front of him he ain't nowhere near ready to let go of, himself.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 14
Kudos: 115
Collections: Morston Week 2020





	Write the World Between the Lines

**Author's Note:**

> _Technically,_ this is for two Morston Week prompts: Day 2 - Borrowing Clothes, and Day 7 - The Journal/Drawing.
> 
> Endless thanks goes out to queenstardust for bouncing around ideas with me, which gave fuel to fan the flames of a story idea that would not let me rest. But more importantly, I am so, so incredibly grateful that she has done such a lovely art piece to go with this. It captures what I hoped to convey via words so vividly. It's perfect, and I adore it entirely♡♡♡

It has been at least fifteen minutes since Arthur left John down by the river. The water wasn’t too frigid, being shallow and slow moving as it was, and still warmed from the day’s sun, but the air had cooled down enough to turn Arthur’s damp skin to gooseflesh and he didn’t much feel like waitin’ around anymore to see if John was going to drown ‘imself in ankle-deep water. Knowing him, John wouldn’t be much longer anyhow, as he doesn’t have the kinda care for cleaning all traces of blood or trail dust out of his soiled clothes in quite the same way as Arthur.

The night air feels more pleasant now, sat in front of the small campfire Arthur built up, even though the bark of the tree he leans against digs into his back slightly. Arthur’s bare skin is warm enough from the fire that he’s left his shirt off, laid across a log a few feet away. His trousers are loosely tied, suspenders hanging at his sides, and he has a relatively good amount of peace and comfort to want to break out his journal. He has it propped in his lap, compelled to sketch the breaks in the treetops where the waning moon hangs half of itself just off-centre; the way the cool illumination of it lights up Preacher’s massive back as if his pale, dappled coat were glowing like the echo of starlight. Old Boy’s darker coat disappears a little in the darkness of the small wooded area, but his mane and tail give ‘im away with a graceful twitch here or content bob of his head there. The constant, rhythmic ripple of the river off behind Arthur wraps up this calm atmosphere neatly and wholly; they truly needed a break. 

Arthur thinks about sketching a simple picture of John’s old, worn boots set next to his own. Something about the sight settles his heart further, but then his ears catch the distant, quiet sounds of water splashing, telling Arthur that the golden boy himself will be breaking the mood of this solitary moment too soon.

There is a shuffle of underbrush behind Arthur. He glances over his shoulder just in time to see John walk by, in all his naked glory, plucking Arthur’s shirt up from the log to throw it on. John says nothing, doesn’t even acknowledge Arthur. Just moseys on to the tree where Arthur has his union suit draped over a low branch to dry. While John gives one last twist to his union suit to wring the last drops of water from it, Arthur watches the way John’s usually broad shoulders are a little swallowed up in the shirt. John reaches up to toss his union suit over the same branch that Arthur’s hangs from. The shirttails of Arthur’s button-down only just skim the backs of John’s thighs to cover his behind as he shifts from one foot to the other. Arthur ain’t real sure what half of his conscience is winning over that– the relief or disappointment.

Not wanting to be caught out in the ungentlemanly amount of gaping he’s doing, Arthur turns back around before John does.

John traipses back over with his bedroll and shakes it out near Arthur, which causes Arthur to raise a questioning brow up at him, especially since he is fairly confused over John’s state of near-complete undress that has yet to be amended. “You lose your pants in the river or somethin’?” He realises too late that he does not bring up the “issue” of _his_ shirt, specifically. It hangs baggy on the leanness of John’s lithe body, framing a stripe of skin that is suffused with the orange flicker of the campfire. Arthur thinks about how aesthetically pleasin’ the blue of his shirt looks against that warm cast to John’s skin. Mostly thinks about it because it is a more innocent thought, and it distracts Arthur from letting his eyes wander too far down the dark trail of hair exposed by the half-open shirt front.

“Well, they’re dryin’. Ever try to pull on or wear wet denim before? Shit ain’t at all pleasant.”

Arthur’s eyes snap back up to John’s face. “Ever hear of bringing a change of clean clothes? Or you not own any?”

“Ain’t that necessary.” John waves him off brusquely, taking a seat on his bedroll, directly in front of Arthur. Tilts his head like an inquisitive damn dog. “Unless I suddenly offend your delicate sensibilities, of course, sir.”

Not a chance Arthur would admit it, but John’s smart mouth shuts ‘im right up. They ain’t prudes, neither of ‘em. No room for that livin’ together in the gang long as they have. Despite that, this ain’t got nothing to do with elbow-to-elbow close quarters. Arthur tries to focus back on his journal even though John is stretching his long legs just enough that his bare feet end up between the spread of Arthur’s knees. By the grace of God, John keeps his legs closed, but Arthur cannot help eyeing the way water droplets glisten in the firelight where they still cling to the hair along John’s scarred up thigh. 

“You drawin’ or writin’?” John catches Arthur off guard.

“Couldn’t use a... blanket or somethin’?” Arthur avoids John’s question to pose his own more pressing one. Still tip-toeing around askin’ John flat out, the most important thing on his mind presently.

John must get the message, though; it must be written all over Arthur’s face. He looks down at the shirt, and back up at Arthur. Licks his lips and begins rolling up the sleeves, saying, “What, don’t like me wearing your things? Just felt kinda chilly, I guess. And it was closer than a blanket.”

Fumbling for his pack of smokes on the ground, Arthur searches even more clumsily for his words. “It ain’t that I… don’t like seein’ you– _wearing it,_ it’s just…” At a loss for what to say, Arthur makes a vague gesture towards John with his unlit cigarette before sticking it between his lips. He strikes a match when he sees the beginnings of a smug grin tilt up the side of John’s mouth. 

Hands cupped around the end of his cigarette, Arthur lights it and shakes out the match. He don’t dare look at John again. Arthur knows what game he’s playin’ at. “Just wondered why, is all. Only a shirt ain’t gonna do much, I reckon.”

“But it does something for _you_ now, don’t it?” So much for tryin’ not to look at John, or fight shy of exactly where this is going. John finger-combs his wet hair back from his face. He leans forward, crossing his wrists over his knees. Even an embarrassingly poor attempt at playin’ coy looks good on John. “I think you actually like seein’ me like this. Don’t think you’d care half as much if the shirt I was wearing was my own, neither.” There’s a short pause before John presses Arthur, “Right?”

Arthur takes a long drag, sighs out a plume of smoke. “You’re the Devil himself sometimes, I swear, Marston. Goddamned fiend.”

John grins again, more confidently. He raises the index and middle fingers of one hand in a silent bid for Arthur to pass off his smoke. Arthur complies easily, letting his forearm brush John’s leg as he leans the small distance towards him. Places the cigarette between John’s fingers and holds himself back from takin’ hold of John’s wrists or legs to tug him a whole lot closer. Tells ‘imself it ain’t a good idea. Tries his damnedest to. Valentine is not far off, and they’re camped relatively close to a well-travelled road. But then, after watching how John eyes him every time his lips wrap around the cigarette butt, Arthur decides to give in to that particularly stupid compulsion. To Hell with it. He assures himself he only does it just to enjoy the surprised and disgruntled look on John’s face when he’s pulled closer without a word of warning. 

Gripping his hands tight around John’s calves, Arthur now gets a much better view.

_“–the Hell, Arthur?”_

“Maybe... I do like seein’ you in only _my_ shirt,” Arthur says, voice kept real low. He lets go of John so he can flip to a blank page in his journal. “And I know you _want_ me to look, so I’m gonna look my fill, John, and give myself something to remember this at a later time, too.” The implication of using an image of John to fuel Arthur’s unspeakable fantasies into things he definitely shouldn't be doing to 'imself is either not picked up on by John, or he’s chosen to ignore it– considering every other private affair they get up to together could result in things much worse than permanent blindness or a bout of insanity.

Arthur starts sketching out the rough form of John’s body, the flow of his curved shoulders and the spill of his dark, damp hair resting there, right on to the slight bend in his knobby knees. John is scowling at him now, but soon turns his head to face the campfire... so Arthur can’t see his scars.

“Know I don’t like that anymore,” John mumbles around the half-gone cigarette in his mouth. And it is true: Arthur knows full well John don’t want his picture drawn ever since the wolves gave him something physical to hate about ‘imself. It has been weeks since Arthur had the chance to sketch John without him knowin’ about it.

“Hey.” Arthur taps John on the shin with his nubby pencil. He’ll need to acquire a new one soon, maybe purchase a couple spares, as this one ain’t likely to last but a few more passes of a knife blade.

It seems John is resolute on looking away from him, not even flinching. Arthur heaves a weighty sigh. Quietly, he tells John, “You gotta know by now, what I see ain’t the same as when _you_ look in the mirror, John.” He hopes his sentiment is clear.

John turns back to him then, still looking damn miserable, though. Boy is fickle as an unbroken bronco at times.

“Should be sayin’ the same to you, then. What with the extent I hear you goin’ on about how awful your mug is to look at.”

Arthur shakes his head in disagreement, but he can’t stop ‘imself from smiling, in spite of it. “Considerin' how hard you clearly smacked your dang face on that rock up past Colter–” Even now, John still wears the faded yellow of the once nasty bruise that had coloured his left cheekbone. Arthur flippantly motions towards the same spot on his own face. Fingers circling the air, right below his eye. “–I wouldn’t be surprised to find it messed with yer eyesight a little.”

Of course, John's eye no longer looks painfully bloodshot these days. Weeks later, red has faded to an uncomfortable shade of pink clouded over white. 

“Can’t ever take a compliment ‘less it comes outta Hosea or Dutch’s mouth about a fine take… or when I’m telling ‘em to you while you're underneath a’ me.” John flicks the burnt-down cigarette towards the fire.

The noise Arthur makes is pointedly non-committal. Keeps his mouth shut and his head ducked down to get back to work sketchin’ John. 

They don’t put words to what they are very often, finding an awkward, left-footed dance around the subject to be the most palatable way to discuss or avoid it when they are alone. Suits them fine, but there’s still that sharp pang Arthur gets in his chest, sometimes a tightness in his throat, if John is the one to bring it up before he does, catchin' Arthur unawares.

Right now, Arthur is in an avoidin’ kinda mood about it, even if what John said is right.

Doesn't mean he wants to put thought to it. Definitely ain't gonna agree. All Arthur sees when his image is reflected back to him are the deep red stains that smear up to his elbows and drip from his fingers. That amount of blood on your hands don't ever wash clean.

The version of John on his page doesn't talk back.

Now, there is an easy way to lose oneself in drawing – and Arthur can only assume it is the same for all them stuffy foreign painters, or Albert and the gorgeous pictures he risks his neck to shoot out in the wilds – that ain’t quite the same as a ride across the sun-drenched countryside alone, or staring up at the stars at night. There’s some actual thinkin’ involved, sure. But in this, Arthur gets to create what he has always failed to, or worse– ruined, in his day-to-day life for so long. A thing of beauty or innocence, when all of his actions bring ugliness and destruction.

It is no secret that John ain’t any kind of innocent in most things, and maybe he is also not the most handsome man Arthur’s met, but… well, for a good while now, he’s been the only one Arthur cares to let his eyes linger on for longer than is appropriate. Arthur had been real careful any time before this thing with him and John, concernin’ the unacceptable half of his tastes. Not wanting to be shot dead or strung up for being some kinda nancy. Something about sharing the life they have has made Arthur a little reckless with it this time around, however.

The world is coloured a bit differently with John by his side.

Dark, thick lines and hatches mark the many folds in Arthur’s shirt where it bunches along John’s arms and across his stomach. Several lighter lines quickly drawn for the striped fabric. Arthur takes his time with it all since he has it for now. As John stares him down, Arthur’s pencil mimics shadowing to frame and envelop the left side of his face and body. Arthur begins darkening the lines for John’s jaw, the drape of the shirtfront over half his chest, making the strokes of his pencil more sure and defined. John’s hands are still clasped over his knees. Arthur hunches forward to move John’s hands out of the way gently. Ghosts his own hand down the inside of John’s thigh, pressing ‘til John moves that leg outward a little more. John inhales a small gasp as he does so.

“Arthur…”

“I… it’s just us, all right? Out here, s’just you and me.”

John nods, sits back. There is a mild tremor in his body. Limbs settle and shift into place. Arthur swallows down an almighty lump in his throat. It becomes a stone-heavy knot in his belly instead. Drawing the shape of John that lies there, between his legs– that unknowable part of him Arthur has a too-intimate knowledge of, it sets his blood alight. He is fully aware how damning it is to have something like this left in his journal, even if he always tries to keep it close, protected. Lets no one but John, if he begs and pesters Arthur enough, see what the leather-bound book contains between its pages. The lines he writes from his heart would likely be more damning yet.

The need for another cigarette hits Arthur hard. He can’t rightly smoke and draw at the same time, but a few drags’ll do his nerves and maybe help keep the stirring of his body at bay.

While Arthur breaks for a minute to pull tobacco smoke into his lungs, John fools around, acting like he's going to steal a peek at Arthur’s progress thus far, and Arthur... Arthur just lightly blends some of his shading with his ring finger here and there, ignorin’ John. Pretends all of this ain’t gettin’ to him in a softhearted way. Arthur passes his cigarette over. As John rests back on his elbows, Arthur’s too-big shirt falls down his right shoulder. John lifts a hand to fix it, but Arthur stops ‘im. “No, uh… You can– leave it. Keep it like that. Just uhm, it’s fine. Like that.”

John’s eyebrows raise, but then he slouches into comfort again, a haze of pale grey smoke dissipating around him. “Yer a funny bastard, Morgan.”

“Yeah, well,” Arthur grunts, thoroughly embarrassed by the way his tongue had just tripped over itself. “I’m inclined to believe we’re both some kinda funny.”

“Can’t argue with that, I guess.” Another puff of smoke leaves John’s mouth as he looks out towards the darkness. For a moment, Arthur admires those healed up scars in full view now, and the line of John’s neck, leading to his bared shoulder. Some strong emotion hits Arthur like a gut punch just then.

“You know why… why I do this, don’t you?”

With a shrug, John scrapes out, “Ain’t sure what you mean.”

Arthur exhales through his nose, frustrated and feelin’ suddenly prickly. Tryin’ to get him to admit any kinda affection for John, beyond what Dutch tried to force on them in a familial and comradely sense is a lot like getting blood from a stone; Arthur’ll be the first to admit it. He’s frustrated with hisself– can’t blame it on John any, not when John don’t really know where they stand.

Arthur gets to drawing John in earnest again, cheeks flushin’ a little when he realises where he’d left off. Apparently noticing where Arthur’s gaze keeps pulling to, John moves his legs apart a bit more and scoots himself closer. 

“Why you do what, exactly?” John unexpectedly asks.

Scratching a knuckle along his chin, Arthur thinks over the price of honesty here. “Why I stick with you. The way that I do.”

John nudges his foot against Arthur’s thigh. “An’ how’s that?”

“Goddamnit, you know what I mean.”

“Maybe I don’t, Arthur.” Another nudge, higher up. “Maybe I just think it’s because you wanna keep your mind off Mary Gillis– _Linton–_ whatever the hell it is nowadays. Don't look at me like I just revealed some well-kept secret, either… Or– or maybe you’re tryin’ to scratch some itch ‘cause you’re too goddamn mannerly to hire a woman at a saloon anymore. Hell, you might just have a deathwish and don’t care if you get caught with a fella, I don’t know. I– How am I supposed to?” The chuckle John lets out holds not an ounce of joy.

Arthur glowers at John. “Take back what I said about wolves eatin’ some a’ your brains and makin’ you less stupid. You ain’t a lick smarter or wiser, no matter how many lessons you get hit with.”

“That right?”

Opposite the page of the sketch of John, Arthur quickly writes: _Might be an almighty idiot, but I guess I love this oblivious fool. I must be just as big an idiot as well then. Don’t know what this life means to bring us, or where Dutch intends to lead us next, but what I do know is that I will keep fighting for Marston, whatever comes. Until he finally gets it through that thick skull of his that he could be worth a whole lot more than all this to quite a few people. And actually tries to be something because of it._

After closing the ribbon between the pages, Arthur tosses his journal to John. John looks up at him, surprised. “Go ‘head, then.” Arthur motions to the cover. Feels a little queasy. His hands shake, so he grips his thighs.

John opens the journal.

John opens the journal, and Arthur thinks he might suffocate or burst his lungs for how he holds his breath in, not even knowin’ which way he should let his rising anticipation fall. John handles the journal carefully, like the pages might crumble in his hands. Arthur watches his face for any reaction, any small change, but John pivots towards the light of the fire; can’t really be sure of John's tells now. One of Arthur’s nails digs at a tiny hole in his trouser leg. John brings his fingers to the page where his own image lounges. Traces over to the words that Arthur can’t pull up from his heart to put an actual voice to.

Without sayin’ a single damn thing, John hands Arthur’s journal back to him. Not an insult nor acknowledgement. Well, that was a fine mistake. 

Rubbing his hand over his mouth, John stares at the sparse grass around them. Contemplating something. Keeps Arthur on tenterhooks 'til he feels his skin stretching too tight against the nervousness buzzing within. Arthur starts shoving his journal back in his satchel beside the tree. He regrets a little, not tellin’ John to bring his own camping gear. Don’t know if sharing a tent tonight is as good an idea as it had seemed when they’d originally rode out from Clemens Point.

Before Arthur can haul ‘imself up, John grips his knee, anchors him back. “Hey. So… pair of goddamn idiots?”

Arthur sniffs, ducks his head to avoid John’s eyes. “Seems so.”

“Then how ‘bout you kiss me, huh? ‘Cause I still ain’t feeling so smart these days. But you already know th–”

Grabbing him by the arm, Arthur drags John forward, and John clambers into his lap willingly. Arthur pulls John into a hard kiss and doesn’t stop until John is trying to shrug out of that borrowed shirt. “Just leave it,” Arthur breathes. Kisses John some more, feeling a smile form beneath his lips.

John’s tongue curls against Arthur’s and his fingers dip into the waist of Arthur’s trousers, tugging the fabric down impatiently. His hand slips down the front of Arthur’s pants, palm on his dick, squeezin’ a little. Stupidest thing they could do is mess around out in the open like this, even at night, but John always had a way of stealin’ Arthur’s reason.

“D’you wanna get in the tent?” Arthur asks, ‘cause he can still be polite even when his mind is filled full with rude thoughts. He runs his hands up the sides of John’s thighs. Grabs at his ass. John pulls the shirt up and presses the head of his cock into Arthur’s stomach, trails a sticky wetness as his hips roll.

“Do you?”

“Not really.” Arthur kisses down John’s neck. “Sure would enjoy seein’ you like this–” He tugs on his shirt where it covers John’s torso. “–best I can.” Arthur hears John’s heavy exhale against his ear, feels it in the way John’s rib cage shrinks beneath his hands, and expands again.

“You’re _real_ peculiar,” John rasps.

“Thought we already went over that. Don’t _want_ me bringin’ up what you like doing with that mouth a’ yours, Marston.”

“M’sure you will later, anyway.” John bites at Arthur’s lip, soothing it with a kiss.

Arthur groans low in his chest when John pulls his cock from out of his trousers. He’s already been rock hard, but John gives him a few steady strokes that make his balls throb.

There is an intermittent breeze that hits the sweat beading on Arthur’s skin. A shiver crawls over his shoulders, and it isn’t just the breeze anymore. He slides one hand to John’s back, beneath his shirt, tries to absorb the heat of his skin. Arthur lets his mind drift, dreams a little. Thinks about gettin’ John out of this life. Abigail and Jack, too. Especially them. Make a goddamn plan of their own. 

He imagines John bein’ too lazy to wash his clothes some days– not much different than now. Them waking up in some nice homestead neither of ‘em deserve. John stealin’ Arthur’s shirts to dress in the morning. Smelling like Arthur and burnt, bitter coffee when he walks up behind John. Parts John’s hair to lay a kiss to the back of his neck. John’s hand finds his. The glare of the rising sun cuts a pale beam through John’s pipe smoke. Warms them through the window panes.

John spits in his hand twice. Slots his dick against Arthur’s. His grip’s a little tight, little too quick, but it’s John touching him. And that makes it just fine, somehow. _Real._ Arthur presses John back from him slightly, takes in what he sees. The furrow in John’s brow that only deepens each time he gives a shuddering sigh through his nose, a moan strained in his throat. The blue shirt keeps slipping off his one shoulder. Finally, John ignores it as he rocks his hips, unbothered.

Strange how at first, seeing John like this had Arthur feeling all kinds of possessive. But now, Arthur realises just what a hold John has over _him._

Ain’t no one in the world can own John Marston, besides.

“John,” Arthur whispers, grasping the side of John’s neck. “C’mere.”

John lifts his chin, meets Arthur’s gaze. Lets Arthur hug him closer just to feel how alive he is for the beat of John’s heart against his body. The bristle of John’s stubble is rough under Arthur’s thumb, and Arthur’s face heats further when he thinks about how he wants that roughness dragging down his stomach, along the sensitive skin of his inner thighs.

This close, he must be lookin’ up at John real starry-eyed, because John kisses Arthur softly, then asks, “Want me to fuck you? I brought the– y’know. If you do…” John’s voice is quiet and shameful. Weighs Arthur’s heart down some.

“Nah, this right here’s good.” Arthur takes John’s hand from stroking them, licks John’s palm, tastes the mingled salt of sweat and the bit of clear spill they both leak. Arthur gets John's hand goin’ at a better pace on them. “Just like that.” He brushes his fingers over John’s knuckles, across the soft skin of John’s cock.

Grabbing John by the collar, Arthur pulls him into a kiss. Presses his tongue into John's mouth, hungry to taste him. Burning on the inside for this. John keeps clenching his fist with each upward stroke, driving them both closer to the edge. Arthur groans, mouth gone slack against John's lips.

"You know I'm yours, right?" Arthur presses his cheek against John's scars, because this is part of him, this is still him, whole yet not. Healed but marked. Imperfect but loved so goddamn deeply it slices a scar into Arthur, too. Right beneath his skin, carved into his bones. "Ain't nobody's but yours, John."

A low whine and curse leave John's mouth.

"Don't know why when–" John's voice is broken by a hoarse moan. "–you could get better."

Arthur takes John's face in his hands. "Tried that. ‘Better’– better don't want me. And better ain't what I need."

“Mean what you wrote?”

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘course I do.” Arthur is hoping John sees the truth of it in his eyes.

John lets out a sigh like a long-burdening weight’s been lifted off him. Cradles the back of Arthur’s head with his fingers twining into his hair. John squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, barely moving at all anymore. When John opens his eyes again, he dips his head and kisses Arthur real slow. Arthur places his right hand over John’s down between them, helping him keep up a steady rhythm, gettin’ them both off. No longer just for the thrill of it, but something more. 

Most of these surreptitious meetings with John have been about attraction and loneliness. Maybe it was always more under the guise of something shallow and base. Blowing off steam with one of the very, _very_ few people Arthur trusts most in his life. Weren’t allowed to call it more’n that. Still ain’t, not really. But this, right now... this Arthur wishes could last a whole lot longer. Wishes they’d taken their time tonight. Should’ve told John a long time ago how he feels.

Between the fingers of his free hand, Arthur twists at John’s shirt collar. Just feeling the worn-soft fabric against the pads of his fingertips. His touch falls to the scruff below John’s chin, down to his throat. John swallows and huffs, so Arthur moves their hands a little slower, teasing. Pushes them to the edge, but doesn’t let them fall. Makes his own goddamn thighs jerk with the sensation. He ghosts the spread of his palm over John's chest, a hardening nipple. Sucks in the breaths John gives him. Arthur enjoys the tensing of John’s stomach muscles below his hand while John tries to fuck into the circle of their fists, against Arthur's cock. He takes firm hold of John’s hip then, to feel that small way his body rocks. Can hardly concentrate on kissing John, more or less panting against his lips in between somethin’ rough. Lips wet, teeth pinching. Starved for each other. Unable to say what that means. Loves John with all his touch alone. Like his pencil shades it on paper, shaping it into something resembling reality.

“Stand up,” John says quickly. 

Arthur ain’t sure he heard him right. He blinks.

“...Stand up?”

John shoots Arthur a scowl, already removing ‘imself from Arthur’s lap. “Yeah, it’s what I said. C’mon.” He gives Arthur’s hair a short tug before getting up.

Unconsciously at first, Arthur gives a wary glance to their surroundings before he takes the hand offered to him; John hoists him to his feet, and Arthur tries one-handed, to gather the fly of his trousers together, not wanting to let ‘em fall down his legs.

Seems John takes offence to that.

Without much preamble, John pushes Arthur back against the tree. Arthur grunts at the uncomfortable, sharp scrape of tree bark, which flakes and falls with his impact. John is everywhere, crowding his space, mouth skipping over Arthur’s chest. He gets his hands on Arthur’s waist, presses his trousers down ‘til they drop to pool around his ankles.

It’s expected, when John spits in his hand again, when he palms the head of his cock to spread his saliva there. There is a familiarity in watching the lewd and dirty routine of it. But they ain’t agreed to anything more than the play of hands, mimicking what they ain’t s’posed to do to themselves alone, yet equally shadowed by its own brand of taboo with each other.

“John, I ain’t–” Arthur begins to say as his hips are pulled away from the tree. The jut of Arthur’s cock brushes against John’s. He wants to get his hand around them again.

“Sorta… squeeze yer uh, legs together.”

Confused as he is, when Arthur complies properly in the way John wants, he can’t stop himself from looking down between them. Loses sense and maybe time too, watching John’s cock guided to push between the press of his thighs. John drags the leaking slick of himself and his saliva up against Arthur’s balls. Arthur shudders with the strange, but not altogether unpleasant sensation of it.

The slickness don’t last long enough once John really gets to moving his hips. Ain’t enough. He makes a couple grunts that sound more annoyed than like he’s actually enjoyin’ himself. Pulls away from Arthur, swearing under his breath.

“Just– hang on, all right? I’m gonna– go get…” And well, Arthur can’t help but laugh. “The fuck’s so funny?” John growls. He squares his shoulders, practically naked, save for Arthur’s shirt sliding off his shoulders and catching on his still-hard cock. He is certainly a sight, but not an intimidatin’ one in the slightest.

Arthur laughs a little harder into the back of his hand. Coughs to cover up a lingering few chuckles. “In my bag right there. Small jar,” Arthur says, serious as he can be. He grins at the fire and brimstone burning in John’s eyes. “What? It’s a rare occasion to witness some fine problem-solvin’ from you, Marston. You get some unique ideas, I’ll give you that.”

“God _damnit,”_ John grumbles, squatting in front of Arthur’s satchel to rummage. 

Smiling to himself, Arthur stares up at the cobalt sky, fingers of clouds smudging across it now. Listens to the metal lid scrape around the glass lip of the Vaseline jar. Opening. Closing. John in front of him again. John’s hands on ‘im, slick now. Slippery between his legs when John presses into that tight space of his thighs once more. Arthur’s own dick is trapped between their bellies. He grabs hold of John’s shirt at his sides, reels him in closer, doesn’t let up on his grip.

Their foreheads bump together. “I swear… all this stoppin’ and startin’, making me wait…” Arthur pants. “You better have me proper, come morning.”

A hand fists into Arthur’s hair, pulls hard. A grounding kinda pain tingles across Arthur’s scalp. John pumps his hips faster.

“Whatever you want, an’ I won’t stop.” John gives Arthur a quick, harsh kiss.

John angles his hips differently, clearly tryin’ to make it better for Arthur. Truthfully, Arthur kinda regrets not taking John into his tent. Can’t be bothered with that now. Still feels too good havin’ John against him like this, bodies aligned. John wantin’ him in the same way, John caring enough…

There’s a stutter in the thrust of John’s hips. Little moans hiccup in his chest as the sweet glide of that rhythm John had been keeping up, fucking between Arthur’s thighs, brushing his most sensitive parts, finally begins to falter.

“Shit… shit, Arthur…”

“Go ahead. _C’mon.”_

Arthur lays small kisses against John’s lips, down his chin, until John interrupts to moan, “I’m– fuck, Arthur I’m gonna come–”

Hands clutching at John’s back, Arthur moves on to kiss John on the cheek, along his neck, surprising hisself with the amount of tenderness he freely gives. Warm dampness splashes between Arthur’s thighs, drips slowly downward as John trembles against him through the rest of his orgasm. John hums and rests his sweaty forehead atop Arthur’s shoulder, catches his breath. Arthur rubs circles into the shirt, over the knobs of John’s spine.

“Hey,” John says quietly, lifting his head.

Arthur whispers back the same, drags the tip of his nose against John’s scarred cheek.

“Can I tell you somethin’?” John’s voice is a little small– meek. Odd for him. 

He begins sliding his hand up and down the length of Arthur’s dick again, torturous and measured. The slippery friction of John’s hand, coupled with the slowness feels like too much and not enough. It is a slow build to warmth in Arthur’s groin, too. 

Shutting his eyes, Arthur nods. “Can tell me anything.”

The pressure around Arthur’s dick grows. John keeps that excruciating pace, though. Drives Arthur insane. Remembering he has hands, Arthur moves ‘em from John’s back, makes an attempt at getting John’s hand going faster. He’s goddamn close and can’t handle another tease.

 _“Fuck.”_ The curse comes out a quiet puff of air against Arthur’s mouth. Arthur opens his eyes in a haze, sees the fretful look on John’s face. “Wish I was as good a man as you…” John is shaking his head. John is beautiful. Each line in his face life shouldn’t have marked ‘im with. Not yet. The shadow of his unshaven jaw. The scar slashed through his lips that Arthur loves to feel beneath his own.

Thinking on what John said, Arthur knows he ain’t no kinda good for John to be speakin’ shit like that.

He can’t get a hold on his voice to speak up against it. Can only seize the back of John’s neck, groaning, feelin’ that tension in his body ready to release.

Everything stops: his breath, the nighttime sounds of New Hanover, the trickle of the river. The whole goddamn world. Because John kisses the hesitant words, “Been wantin’ to tell you… Pretty sure I’m in love with you, Arthur,” against Arthur’s mouth. 

Arthur can taste the goddamn sincerity of them on his tongue. He squeezes John’s nape, kisses him fiercely while he comes hard into John’s fist. Feels like his knees, his bones turn to liquid– only John keeps him held up, keeps ‘im from falling under.

“Goddamn you. _Goddamn you,_ John...” Arthur thrusts his hips forward a few more times, shallow and lethargic. His body sags against John.

“Ain’t a lot I’m sure of… but that– think that’s a safe bet.” There’s a smile in John’s voice Arthur wishes he could see. Doesn’t have the energy to do much else but cling to John right now, though.

Arthur tucks his face into John’s neck. “Yeah, and you gamble too damn much.”

John pushes him off gently, so Arthur leans against the tree again. His head thunks back and he suddenly feels old. Ain’t love s’posed to make you feel youthful or some nonsense?

Several seconds pass. The bunched blue cotton of Arthur’s button-down ends up waved in his face. He raises a brow at John.

“Did you want to… well–" Grey eyes track up and down Arthur’s body, pointedly lingering on the mess between his legs.

“With _my_ shirt, huh?”

John scratches his chin with a knuckle, looks off towards the trees. “I might’ve... already…”

“Oh, _Jesus Christ._ Just give me it,” Arthur hisses, snatching his soiled shirt from John’s outstretched hand. He goes through a quick and perfunctory cleaning best he can while John’s guilty stare ain’t on ‘im. “Then _you_ can be the one to scrub it out tomorrow.” Grimacing at the tackiness between his thighs, Arthur wads up his shirt. “...While we both bathe again.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, fine. Can I get in the tent now?” John thumbs behind himself.

Smirking, Arthur eyes John for a moment while pulling his pants up. Breeds a bit of suspense. “Naw, gonna sleep under the stars tonight! _Romance_ you, huh?”

“Fuck you.”

Arthur slings one suspender strap over his shoulder. “Next time, maybe you’ll think a’ bringin’ a change of clothes. Seems real necessary now, don't it?”

Turning on his heel, John ambles the several yards to Arthur's tent. In effort to not get distracted watching– appreciatin’ John, even in the darkness – Arthur gathers his things together. Glistening in the flicker of campfire, Arthur notices a few thin ropes of John’s spend painted ‘cross the trunk of the tree, where Arthur’d been standing earlier. Before he can really decipher what kinda heat that stokes in him, Arthur hedges anymore shame and calls back to John, “Left a pretty nice mess on the pine, here. Yeah, I imagine it’d be more romantic to carve our _initials!_ Ain’t that what young lovers do?"

_"You ain't young, Morgan!"_

The tent flap rustles. Arthur grins to himself.

In their combined bedrolls, John lies sprawled, flannel blanket covering him to the waist. Lean arms and legs stretch and straddle to welcome Arthur as he kneels, shifting to coat John's bare skin with the heat of his own body. John throws the blanket over them both once Arthur settles in.

“So what’s with all this talk of romance?” A hand comes to rest on the back of Arthur's head.

Nosing along John's chest, Arthur's voice rumbles, "I don't know what I'm doin', John."

“Makes two of us.”

Arthur chuckles, raises his head to look John in the eye. “Don’t know if that’s better or worse.” 

John’s body is a secure comfort beneath his. Arthur lifts himself up onto his hands and leans down to kiss John with a smile before falling to lie snug against his side. John folds him in closer and clears his throat.

“Why’re you so sure of me now?”

Maybe half a minute is too long to let that question go unanswered. Thing is, Arthur is not quite sure if he ever doubted the man John became long enough to let go of the feelings that he’d let tangle and vine around his heart. Let the thorns of this type of affection dig until they became part of ‘im. When John had come back, years ago, after his time fuckin’ off doin’ Lord knows what, his presence in Arthur’s life again had soothed the puncture of that pain to numbness.

“Disappointment don’t often come from low expectations. Was always sure, John. It’s you that ain’t convinced.”

A soft breath ruffles his hair.

In order to not make things too awkward, Arthur decides to change the subject.

“What d’you think of all this?” He tilts his head up towards John’s. “Dutch’s latest scheme to take us outta here– far from here. With riches to spare.”

John looks taken by surprise a little at Arthur askin’.

"Think we're stickin' our noses where they don't belong, getting into some family war that's been waging too long before we took up around here. Don't think it's wise. Really don't feel safe when we’re supposed to be keepin’ our heads down, right? And I think I don't know shit about no _Tahiti,_ but I like it out here all right. Sure as Hell ain't looking forward to ridin' back down towards Saint Denis, all the same. Why? What do you think?"

Arthur scratches idly at his own chest then glides his palm beneath the blanket, over the flinch of John’s ticklish stomach ‘til he can wrap his arm around him. “Yeah, West don’t seem to be gettin’ no closer. I’m… I ain’t too sure. Been thinkin’ a lot...” He takes another beat of silence for himself to muse over whether he truly wants to have this conversation right now. “Ah, we’ll– think I’d rather talk about it in the morning. Just want us… to be okay.”

“So do I, but Dutch has to quit seein’ _his_ best interest as all of ours. Things ain’t been the same for awhile, Arthur. ‘Specially since he started havin’ that goddamn gnat with a moustache flyin’ around his ear. You can’t tell me they have.”

Arthur’s eyelids slip closed. A content drowsiness spreads through him. “It ain’t all that, it’s… The whole lot of us is under a mound of stress– Dutch most of all–”

“Go to sleep, Morgan.”

Arthur cracks one of his eyes open. “Who’re you tellin’...?” he begins to ask, indignant.

“You got an early morning, old man. If you want me makin’ good on my promise.” 

John’s hand wanders briefly past the waistline of Arthur’s trousers. Reluctantly, Arthur’s cock twitches.

“Don’t recall no promises made from you.”

“Well now I’m makin’ ‘em.”

Arthur bites John squarely over his nipple, making him spit curses.

Come morning, there is no mention from John about what Arthur was thinking about last night. Arthur tries to forget it. Loses himself to John’s hands on his waist, in his hair; John’s lips pressed to the back of his neck while his hips dig forward against Arthur’s ass. The sleep-roughened sounds they both try stifling.

Down at the river again, is when Arthur cracks. Only a hairline fracture, not enough to splinter and fray the time they’ve been stealin’.

He’d been watching John walkin’ up the gravelly, shallow slope of the bank. Sun lighting up his wet shoulders. John quickly blots his skin mostly dry with his blanket and starts climbing his legs into his union suit. Lets the top half hang loose around his waist while shaking the blanket out onto the grass.

“Gonna get us– _get you,_ and Abigail, and Jack outta this.” Arthur looks at the tooled gun belt in his hands. Slips it around his hips. “Outta all of it.”

John stomps into his boots and flops his ass down on the blanket. He’s got an unlit cigarillo stuck out between his lips. “Yeah? How’s that?” he mumbles, reaching over for his satchel sat on the pile of his dry clothes folded haphazardly in the grass. He pulls out a little narrow box of matches.

“I ain't fully sure… I’ll come up with somethin’.” John looks up at him with doubt ashen in his eyes. Maybe he don’t take Arthur seriously. Arthur cannot say he blames him. “Come up with somethin’ you ain’t heard before a hundred times. Just need a bit a’ time to think it through better.” John is still lookin’ at him questioningly, but Arthur ain’t got much more he can say than that. Don’t know much more than that yet, to be painfully honest, and he can’t lie to John. “I’ll– I’m gonna go break down camp.”

John strikes a matchstick across his boot heel. He hovers the cigarillo away from his mouth long enough to shoot back, “And I’m gonna smoke.” 

Arthur walks off, feelin’ dismissed at John’s curtness.

Preacher grazes in short, lazy steps, keepin’ a wary distance of Old Boy, who knickers as if to say he don’t mean no harm to the old work horse. Arthur tosses them each an apple and gets busy breaking down his tent and gathering together their supplies. Pours out the lukewarm coffee. The campfire isn’t much more than a glow of embers holding a blackened shape of the logs the flames had consumed. Arthur kicks dirt into it, snuffing out the rest. John comes around to pack away his things on Old Boy’s saddle before disappearin’ again without sayin’ a thing.

Arthur is giving the barrels of his shotgun a cursory cleaning when he realises John’s been gone a little while.

He wanders around the patchy scatter of trees hugging their camp. Finds John behind a broad tree, bent over staring at its trunk with a frown of concentration on his face. It is the same tree where Arthur sat, drawing John last night. Where they’d exchanged new truths and had stolen each other’s breath. 

Arthur circles the tree, light on his feet as he can be. John has his left hand braced on his thigh, the right poised at the tree bark. Arthur recognises the thin blade in John’s hand as the one he usually whittles with.

There’s a questioning word on the tip of Arthur’s tongue, but upon his approach, John notices him and droops back as he stands, throwing his arms in frustrated disappointment. Like Arthur just interrupted somethin’ of real import.

 _“Shit,”_ John says to the dirt he kicks. He crosses his arms and looks up through the fall of his hair. Rubs his thumb over the chapped skin of his bottom lip. “I’m a jackass.”

Crooked smile on his face, Arthur walks towards John. “Well, sure. What’d you do now?” He glances to where John’s line of sight is focussed. Stops dead in his tracks at what he sees.

John’s eyes cut towards him. Nervously, he shifts, chews on his thumbnail. Arthur manages to tear his gaze away from both John and the goddamn tree and nods. Perhaps not in any kinda agreement, but a simple acknowledgement. Before his eyes can start to well, Arthur looks up towards the branches of tall pines crisscrossing the pale azure sky, like arms reaching out to each other for some sort of comfort. He breathes in slowly, not letting his composure break.

“When’d you become s’damn sentimental?” Arthur gestures to the tree trunk. Saves John from sinking further into his apparent embarrassment by sparing him any direct glances. Saves ‘imself too, maybe.

“It’s a _joke,_ is all. Only messin’. ‘Cause of what you said last night.”

“A joke,” Arthur repeats, dryly. “That why yer hiding back behind this damn tree like you are? Actin’ like you got caught with your hand down your pants when I walked up on you. A joke for who? The squirrels? ‘Cause I’m no wildlife expert now, but I’m willin’ to bet the animals that roam ‘round here ain’t too literate.”

John grimaces. He is turnin’ a shade of red that ain’t nothin’ to do with too much sun. Arthur looks at the marred tree bark again, ducks his head because he feels the heat of his own blush filling his face to spread down his neck. He smiles at John from beneath the shade of his hat.

“Asshole.” John shakes his head and passes by Arthur, but Arthur snags ‘im around the waist.

There is a half-hearted scuffle, and John gets a good punch to Arthur’s arm in an odd spot between muscle. Laughing, Arthur rubs the soreness out. “C’mere would ya?”

“Why?” 

“Just _come ‘ere._ Christ.”

John obliges, despite the sour look plastered on his face. Arthur catches John’s jaw between his palms, tries smoothin’ that scowl away with his thumbs before kissing John softly. That seems to do the trick. Or, at least Arthur is pretty sure it does, seeing as John clutches at him. Deepens the kiss with a small moan Arthur would really love to hear again and again. John’s hands wander over Arthur’s gun belt, groping at his ass. Arthur breaks their kiss.

“Guarantee you’re a lot more sentimental than me,” John says, voice pitched in a low rasp. 

Arthur dodges John’s attempt to lean in for another kiss. “Go check the horse tack, make sure that gelding a’ yours ain’t in a nipping mood, being left with Preacher. Gimme a minute, okay?”

“You all right?”

To calm John’s worry, Arthur brushes his fingers through his hair, catching in a couple knots. John tips the front of Arthur’s hat up and presses their mouths together again. Arthur lets the kiss linger, but only remain chaste.

“Yeah, everything’s just fine,” Arthur whispers.

Once Arthur is something like alone, he shuffles through his satchel and pulls out his journal. Flips towards the back and tears a page out, careful of the binding. Arthur crouches beside the pine tree and holds the uneven sheet of paper over sandy-pale wood, where an area of bark, several inches wide, has been chipped away. With a light hand, Arthur presses the side of his pencil lead to the paper, keeping an easy pressure with his index finger. He rubs the pencil back and forth until the shape of an ‘A’ appears, and then two crossed lines below it after. Finally, a rough ‘J’ is impressed in a wash of graphite. Arthur finishes his rubbing of the carving with trying his best to capture the lopsided heart circling their initials. 

_A + J_

It ain’t a perfect pencil rubbing, but Arthur is more than pleased with it. On the back of the page, he sketches out a quick map of this pine cluster and its approximate distance from Valentine and the river. He folds the paper and slips it in his journal, marking his drawing of John from the previous evening, and the confessions of the emotions that formed each line. Love pressed between love.

* * *

The old dock creaks beneath Arthur’s boots with each jangle of spur. A thick smell of moulding wood permeates the air, despite the humidity that falls with the sun. John’s tapered form marks the end of the dock. He stands hipshot, looking out over their temporary piece of Flat Iron Lake. Smoke curls from his right hand, spiraling into nothing as it reaches upwards and away.

Sounds of camp fade out the closer Arthur gets to John. He listens to the gulping splashes the tails of smallmouth make as they go after the midges swarming in clusters over the dark, rippling skin of the water.

Arthur tugs lightly on one of John’s suspender straps. He wears no shirt over the red, threadbare flannel of his union suit, and it hugs his back in the way that always seems to catch Arthur’s eye.

John shoots Arthur a dirty look over his shoulder, but the tension in his stance soon melts away as Arthur stands beside him. He’s silently offered the cigarillo John puffs on, and Arthur takes it gratefully. He slings his arm over John’s neck. Wants, with the flavour of desperation in his mouth, to smooth his hand beneath John’s unbuttoned collar, to feel the pulse beneath his skin. But that can come later, maybe. If they’re quiet enough.

It’s then that Arthur notices the way John holds himself, arms hugging around his sides. He’s pressed against Arthur’s side now. Arthur sneaks the tip of a finger beneath John’s union suit to drag over his clavicle. John shivers. Holds himself in even tighter.

Arthur hands off the cigarillo to John then shrugs off his sack coat. Tells John to put it on.

John fusses, offended apparently. “Morgan, I ain’t your woman.” He shoves at Arthur’s hands.

“It’s a good thing this is a men’s coat, then. Even better, that I ain’t confused ‘bout what you are. Reckon we cleared that one up once and for all nigh on a year ago.”

Still, John glares at Arthur, unsure. Guarded.

“Ain’t weak to wear the damn coat, John.” It has taken them awhile to get to the level of comfort they have around folks in camp. Fear will always gnaw sharply at both of them, though. Like the way the lake-cooled air nips at John. Majority of the gang don't seem too ruffled by it– surprised, maybe, but don't have a word otherwise about them being themselves.

Who they bed ain't of much concern when most of 'em all got prices on their heads for who they’re robbin’ or killin’.

John takes Arthur's coat. He pauses right before putting it on.

“Why’s it matter so much to you? Just one more thing for them to notice. Don’t feel like hearin’ any one of ‘em runnin’ at the mouth about it.”

“I guess…” Arthur sighs, not wantin’ to draw this out into somethin’ complicated when things like this here, feel so very simple. “‘Cause I’m your man, and I’m allowed to be nice to you. In between the times I ain’t.” 

The side-eye John gives ‘im sears into Arthur’s skull.

Deadpan, John repeats, “In between the times you ain’t.”

“Might be– sweet on you, but don’t mean I'm gonna start–”

“Just shut the hell up.” John’s arm comes around Arthur’s waist, fingers latching onto his gun belt and pulling him closer. From the corner of his eye, Arthur sees the hint of a smile curling itself into the edge of John’s mouth.

Together, they watch dusk's soft lavenders and brilliant orange hues painted over with the solid indigo of night. The needlework of stars and constellations embroidering that fathomless ceiling above. The minutes tick on, watching the sun sink into Flat Iron. Flocks of geese pass overhead in their sparse vee formation, the nasal honks blaring into the growing stillness of the evening.

Even so, Arthur hears, as much as he feels, when John takes a steadying breath beside him. 

“I’m yours, too.”

“I know.”

They hang onto one another a little more tightly, and Arthur turns plans over in his head of how he can bring his dreams of a real, steady life with John to fruition.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't kink shame Arthur, John.
> 
> Title comes from a line in "Torch" by The Psychedelic Furs
> 
> Thank you to all who read, kudos, comment, or bookmark. I hope you've enjoyed what I've done here!🖤  
> Follow queenstardust on social media & keep an eye out for the art that goes with this 👀
> 
>  **EDIT:** You can now view Petra's gorgeous (and slightly NSFW) art [here](https://twitter.com/queenstardust2/status/1293532696937783297?s=20) on Twitter, as well as [here](https://queenstardust.tumblr.com/post/626248641375617024/my-contribution-for-this-years-morston-week-d-i) over on tumblr! :)  
> 
> 
> As always, you can find me on Twitter @oh_amatus, tumblr @thefire-in-the-nightsky, and Instagram @poetica.del.fuoco


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